


Nothing's Normal With You

by YakuzaDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, POV John Watson, Romance, Sexual Content, Valentine's Day, brief mentions of violence and injury, mention of Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YakuzaDog/pseuds/YakuzaDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2014 johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day gift exchange on tumblr. For littlenim's prompt: “Domestic (but unconventional) Valentines day in and around 221B”.</p><p>AKA: 5 times Sherlock and John attempt to spend Valentine's Day like a normal couple and 1 time they don't need to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing's Normal With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlenim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlenim/gifts).



> This is written for [littlenim](http://littlenim.tumblr.com/) who asked for the prompt in [johnlockchallenge](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/)'s Valentine's gift exchange. I really hope you like! This turned out a LOT longer than I was planning, like wow, I really didn't even know I could write this much. I ran with it though, so hopefully it was worth it in the end.  
> Un-betaed or brit-picked. Let me know if I messed anything up.

 

1

John wakes up to the blare of a smoke alarm and the smell of something burning.

It’s only seconds later that he hears a muffled curse from the other room, followed by the alarm being shut off and a clatter hitting the kitchen lino.

John drowsily reaches his arm over to the other side of the bed and grabs a handful of empty sheet. Yep, that’s definitely Sherlock in the kitchen.

With a sigh, John slowly drags himself up and out of bed. He puts on his dressing gown and exits the bedroom, shuffling down the hallway towards the kitchen.

The mess waiting for him isn’t nearly as bad as he was expecting. In fact, the room almost looks as messy like it would any other day.

Various items of lab equipment clutter the kitchen table, leaving little room for anything other than Sherlock’s experiments. And it looks like today’s experiment is already in motion. There is a glass beaker over a lit flame of a Bunsen burner filled with boiling water and an egg still in its shell. Beside the beaker is a plate piled with what appears to be toast… maybe. Whatever it is, it’s completely burnt to a blacken crisp and smells absolutely dreadful.

On the stove is a frying pan bubbling and spitting, its viscous contents a rather disturbing shade of crimson. The kitchen floor is littered with pieces of what was once a fully functional smoke alarm. And for some curious reason, the blinds covering the kitchen window are charred on some of the slats, little wisps of smoke wafting from them into the air.

In the middle of everything stands Sherlock Holmes himself, safety goggles donned and a blowlamp in-hand. Upon noticing John’s entrance, he shuts off the tool and places it on the seat of a chair.

“Good morning, John.”

“’Morning…” John replies warily. “Should I ask what it is you’re up to then?”

“What does it look like?” Sherlock motions his arms up as if everything is self-explanatory.

“Well, it looks like you’re in the middle of a potentially dangerous experiment, moments away from burning the flat down.”

“I’m _cooking_ , John!”

“Oh. Right.” He nods, his eyes trained on the floor. “So… why again are you cooking methamphetamine in our kitchen?”

“I’m not—!“ Sherlock groans and shoves his goggles up over his face, pushing back his fringe. “I am _trying_ to make breakfast.”

“Yeah, no no, I got it.” John says with an amused look on his face. “Just joking.”

Sherlock sighs. “…I really was trying to make it a surprise for you and everything, it being _today_ ,“ he grimaces, “and all that.”

Sherlock reaches over to the stove and turns off the heat, next turning to the Bunsen burner and shutting that off, too. “I estimated that my methods would work more efficiently than conventional ones.” He glances at the burnt food on the table. “I, uh— well maybe cooking just isn’t cut out for me. But I thought that you would have appreciated it, if the circumstances were,” he coughs. “more favorable.”

John can’t help but smile.  He really did try, the git. “I do appreciate it. Thanks.”

He steps forward and braces his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He leans up and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock replies with a shy smile.

John turns to leave when his eye catches sight of the red slush in the frying pan again. “Er, what is that?” He asks, pointing to it.

“Bacon.” Sherlock replies simply.

“Bacon?” It definitely doesn’t look solid enough to be true.

“I used cranberry juice as an alternative frying oil since we seem to be out of the usual. It should work just as suitably as any other cooking oil, apparently. Saw it on an online article. The taste of the meat will probably be altered a bit, but I doubt it’s anything too distinctive.”

John nods absently. “…Right. We’ll, uh, figure out the breakfast situation in a bit then.” He turns and walks out, heading towards the bathroom. “Just clean things up for now, yeah?”

 

 

~~~

 

2

Sherlock walks into the sitting room, hot mug of tea in hand, and sits down at the desk, opposite from John who's using his laptop. Sherlock opens the lid of his own respective computer and logs in to check his e-mail.

His inbox is empty of new messages minus one from a certain John H. Watson. Upon opening it, he is greeted with a bolded link: **_Click here for a special message to you, from John!_** Curiosity piqued, he does just so.

The sight that appears before Sherlock in the new browser tab is instantly groan-inducing. It’s an e-card depicting a bright pastel-coloured scene of tiny woodland critters spinning together in a line. More specifically, the little animals are hedgehogs. Dancing. In the middle of a field of flowers complete with a flourishing rainbow in the background.

Sherlock scowls at the display as the hedgehogs finish their dance with a final pose. The animation ends as sparkling pink bubble letters transition in to spell: **_Will you be my Valentine? Love, John_**

Sherlock exits out of the offending tab and looks up to glower at John.

John flashes him a cheeky wink. “So, what do you think?”

“Absolutely ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs. “It’s impossible for such a small animal to balance that much of its body weight on its hind legs with such an insubstantial skeletal system. Also the colour palette of the illustration is horrendous and completely unaesthetic to the human eye.”

“Well, it’s just a silly e-card. It’s not supposed to make any sense,” John shrugs. “But I wasn’t asking about the logic or aesthetics of the card.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, a coy smile on his lips.

Sherlock glares before looking away. He raises his mug to his face, grumbling unintelligibly before taking a sip.

Believing that to be as much as he’ll get out of the man, John shakes his head, amused, and looks back toward the screen of his laptop. However, under the table, he feels a warm sock-clad foot brush fondly against his ankle.

John chuckles. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then.” He returns the affection by bringing his other foot over to stroke his bare toes over the instep of the detective’s foot. There’s a hint of a smirk on Sherlock’s face.

Comfortable silence settles over the two for minutes to follow. Warm mugs of tea are sipped. Tapping of keys and clicking of mice resound faintly in the room. Relaxed limbs tangle and caress underneath the desk.

“So uh,” John inquires after a while, “I’m just curious here, but did you maybe get me anything for today?”

Sherlock looks up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Just curious is all. I don’t really care if you did or not, just wondering.”

“I did,” Sherlock says.

“Really?” _That’s a surprise_ , John thinks.

Sherlock types away fervently at his keyboard, eyes trained at the screen. “Yes.”

“Can I ask what it is?”

“Flowers.”

“Wait, really? You got me _flowers_ for Valentine’s Day?” John gapes at the sentiment in this notion. He imagined the possibility of Sherlock getting him something for the occasion, but flowers? That’s almost too sweet coming from Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation, fingers halting their typing. “ _Yes_ , John. I got you flowers. Well, I _did_ , technically, but their arrival was ultimately impeded, in the end.”

“Oh. Wait, why’s that? Wouldn’t you just have picked something up from a local shop or other?”

“Nope.” Sherlock explains as he resumes his typing. “I explicitly ordered a specific genus that I thought would be interesting. _Kalmia latifolia_. Native only to North America. A rather alluring species of flower, however quite poisonous.”

John narrows his eyes warily at the mention of that last bit.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock continues evenly, “due to the flower’s dangerous nature and half-witted suspicions from postal employees about my intentions for purchasing said flower, they never made it past customs.” He shrugs. “It’s a shame. I was hoping to run some tests on them after you finished entertaining yourself with their presence.”

“I should have guessed,” John shakes his head. “You would try to get me something, only to end up using it for your own purposes, you git.” He playfully kicks Sherlock in the shin.

Sherlock chuckles lightly, a soft rumble in his throat. Moments later, his gaze drifts downward, his teeth worrying on his bottom lip. “I really did want to get you something, though. I thought about other substitutes. Chocolates were a ‘no’ since I know you’re not partial to sweets.”

This is true. John really isn’t one for sugar.

“I also overlooked the urge to buy you a jumper since you just recently acquired no less than four new ones last Christmas.”

Also true. John definitely doesn’t need any new jumpers for a while.

“I did almost purchase a curious assortment of personal lubricants advertised towards heterosexual couples that claim to have stimulating chemical reactions during sex when one lubricant is used on one partner while a differing solution is applied to the other. However, after reading the ingredient lists, it was obvious to see that both are just normal lubricants with additional warming supplements— nothing too ground-breaking. Could be easily home-made, really.”

John suddenly realizes he’s been absently holding his mug in the air. He places it down on the table and clears his throat.

Sherlock taps out the last of what he was typing with a loud clack of his finger. He closes the lid of his laptop and rises from his chair to stand up. “I didn’t leave empty-handed though. I bought a generic brand of warming lube that we haven’t used before since we were running out of what we’ve got anyway. So, I guess you can consider that my gift to you.” Sherlock pauses, remembering something. “Actually we’ve already used it just the other night since I opened it then. Don’t know if you noticed any difference or not; you were a bit preoccupied, at the time.”

Completely at a loss for words, John stares thoughtfully into the distance. Now that he mentions it, things did feel a bit more… tingly, last time.

“Ah! But enough about that,” Sherlock says, hands clasped behind his back, “Since you asked first, I believe it’s alright for me ask you the same: did you get _me_ anything for today’s occasion?”

John snaps out of his reverie. “Oh, right. Yeah.” He leans back in his chair to dig into the pocket of his jeans. “I kind of just assumed you weren’t really into the whole ‘gift-giving sentiment’ thing so I didn’t splurge on anything big.”

“Good thinking,” Sherlock agrees.

John pulls out a small circular tin from his pocket and tosses it to Sherlock, who catches it easily. Sherlock looks at the label on the tin to see that it’s lip balm made from beeswax.

He regards John with an affronted look. “Why--?”

“Your lips are often chapped,” John cuts in.

“What—why does that matter? How would you know?” Sherlock self-consciously licks his lips.

John raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I think you know how I know.”

Sherlock’s cheeks tint with a hint of red. “Fine. I get it.” He pockets the small tin of balm in the pocket of his dressing gown and walks out of the room to the kitchen.

John smiles to himself knowing that’s as close to a ‘thank you’ he’ll ever get from Sherlock.

 

 

~~~

 

3

“I don’t understand why you want to put me through this. To put _us_ through this?” Sherlock accuses at John, who is sitting on the sofa. Sherlock stands with his arms folded in the center of the sitting room, his expression grim.

“Stop being a drama queen.” John says. “You haven’t got anything on today and I can tell you’re starting to get antsy, so I’m just suggesting a nice, pleasant way for us to pass the time.”

“But I don’t understand! Why do you want to watch a _romantic comedy_ film— of all ghastly things?”

“Well, I kind of assumed we were following a bit of a pattern today. You know… breakfast, the gifts…” He tilts his head considering, “It wouldn’t hurt, yeah?”

“But—“

“Just,” John says, his voice high with exasperation, “don’t question it. Just come here.” He motions his arm towards the space beside him on the sofa.

Sherlock grimaces but reluctantly walks over to the sofa. He curls up in space next to John, tucking his long legs up to his chest, and laying his head down to rest in John’s lap.

John’s hand immediately settles on the top of Sherlock’s head, his fingers carding through dark curls to knead soothingly at the man’s scalp. Sherlock sighs contentedly, snuggling further into the touch of John’s hands.

With the film disc already in the DVD player, John uses the remote control to start the movie.

As the movie plays and the two relax into each other’s warmth, it all seems quite nice. Well, sort of. Before the opening credits even finish, Sherlock is already commenting and critiquing everything on-screen. John manages to mentally mute the commentary for the most part.

“It’s been 20 minutes and they’re already smitten with each other. Are they really not going to do anything about it for another 94 minutes?” Sherlock says aloud from below.

John manages a giggle at that. It reminds him of the two of them. It took them long enough to become what they are today when it really was so inevitable from the start.

Sherlock quiets down after a while, leaving both him and John to focus solely on the television screen. John’s fingers continue to rub gently into Sherlock’s hair, but their pace has slowed from earlier. John finds himself having to blink rapidly to keep his attention on the screen.

_God, this movie is going by too slowly._

It isn’t long before John’s head flumps back against the wall, the man having fallen asleep.

After an ambiguous amount of time, John slowly drifts back into consciousness. He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand and scrunches his brow. The comforting weight of Sherlock is still in his lap, so the movie must still be playing. Hopefully he hasn’t missed too much…

John opens his eyes only to look at the telly and see what looks like a human body on a slab with its chest unabashedly cut open, blood and internal organs wholly viewable.

 _Well that’s new_ , John thinks.

“I don’t remember there being any horrific scenes of open-heart surgery in this movie,” John mutters drowsily as he leans back, stretching his shoulders.

“Live operation of a coronary artery bypass grafting, to be exact,” Sherlock says.

John snorts. “Well, yeah. I know that.” _I’m the doctor here_ , John inwardly rolls his eyes. “But why are we suddenly watching this?”

“Obviously you fell asleep out of boredom from watching that ridiculous excuse for a love story. And of course _I_ got bored, so I switched it off and put something more interesting on while you were out.” Sherlock turns his head to look up at John. “But seriously, is that the kind of film you watched with the women you used to date in order to pass the time? No wonder you never had any successful relationships.”

John bumps his knuckles against the side Sherlock’s head. “Oi. Shut it.”

Looking back towards the screen, there’s now a surgeon, fully garbed in orthodox green uniform, leaning over the body to inspect the void in the body’s chest.

John has to admit, this is more interesting than what they were previously watching.

“Pay attention to the surgeon’s hand here,” Sherlock points out. “He’s got a tremor in his right wrist. He’s nervous because this is his first live broadcasted operation in front of an audience, not to mention he’s only been out of medical school for a few months. In addition to stage fright, the man is also under pressure from his family to excel in his position, however despite his notable skill as a surgeon, it was never his initial career aspiration in the first place.”

 _Amazing_ , John thinks.

Before he can speak a word of praise for Sherlock’s deduction, the attention of both men is grabbed by movement on the screen as the surgeon picks up a scalpel, his hand clearly trembling.

“Oh shit,” John gasps.

Sherlock sits up from John’s lap and leans forward in his seat, hands pressed together in front of his mouth, an “ _ohh-now-this-is-interesting_ ” smile sprouting on his face.

Both men sit on the edges of their seats, utterly engaged as if watching a football match, whimsical romance the last thing on their minds.

 

 

~~~

 

4

There was with a mutual and unspoken agreement between Sherlock and John to reserve a dinner table at one of London’s more affluent restaurants for Valentine’s Day.

It was around New Year’s when Sherlock had peeked over John’s shoulder one evening while he was on his laptop and caught him looking at online brochures for “romantic dining establishments.” John had quickly minimized the tab, attempting to look innocent when he acknowledged Sherlock’s presence, but Sherlock neglected to speak any ridicule like John was expecting him to and instead he merely voiced the name of a single restaurant and walked away.

Nothing else was said of the topic afterwards, but a reservation was made, all the same.

John had hoped it would be a wise decision, doing something special like this for their first Valentine’s Day together as a couple. It was a normal, traditional, romantic kind of thing to do. It sounded like a good plan.

However, now on the night of the dinner, as John and Sherlock sit across from one another, attired in their most ornate suits, seated in the center of a grand and decadent dining hall, lush with glittering overhead chandeliers, elegant pieces of artwork hung on precious decorated wallpapers, and graceful melodies of piano music filling the air, John thinks otherwise.

It’s not that the restaurant isn’t lovely—it really is. It’s not that the service is rubbish—not at all, the employees are kind and courteous. It’s not even that the food is bad—it’s exquisite, however miniscule the portion sizes are.

Everything is just so… boring.

Conversation between the two men has been sparse for the last few minutes. Sherlock is mindlessly tapping his foot underneath the table to no evident beat and twiddling a spoon in his hand, his eyes randomly scanning the rest of the diners in the room.

 John nonchalantly swirls the wine in his too expensive crystalline glass. He feels like slamming his head on to the table and screaming.

“You’re bored,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

John doesn’t even hesitate to admit it. “Yeah,” he breathes heavily.

“I don’t know how you could have imagined this working out successfully when you thought of this idea.”

John gives him a look. “Hey, you didn’t say anything to stop me. You thought it was a nice idea, too.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to spit a retort, when the corner of his lip twitches and he shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re both idiots.”

The sudden burst of honesty from the detective causes John to grin widely. “Seriously, what was I even expecting us to do here other than look like posh sods?”

“I think this is the part where we stare longingly into each other’s eyes and whisper sweet nothings,” Sherlock says, taking a sip of wine.

“Mm, I think you’re right, _darling_ ,” John drawls as he leans forward, chin resting in his palms with elbows on the table, batting his eyelashes.

Sherlock gracelessly snorts into his wine glass and raises a hand to stifle giggles. John breaks his performance to join in with the laughter.

“Oh god,” John chuckles, “what are we still doing here?”

Sherlock takes a breath, recovering from his mirth. “Hell if I know.” With an absolutely devious grin on his face, “How about we do something else? Something more _normal_?”

John returns a smirk, “What do you have in mind?”

“Some of the most compelling cases of crime emerge as a result of the fourteenth of February.” Sherlock is practically radiating with excitement. “Undeterred by the commercialized traditions of romance, there are breakups, revelations of cheating spouses, reports of domestic abuse, vandalism, _murder_.”

“So, you wanna take on a case tonight?”

“Precisely.”

A familiar sensation of thrill pulses through John. “God, yes. Let’s do it.”

Sherlock immediately pulls out his mobile to dial Lestrade. John catches the attention of a waiter to get the bill paid.

_Finally, there is some excitement to look forward to today._

“Lestrade, hello,” Sherlock greets swiftly into his phone, “I need you to give me a case. Now.”

John finishes business with the waiter and looks over to Sherlock. In the blink of an eye, he can see the ecstatic glow of Sherlock’s features morph into an objecting frown.

“What do you mean you’re not at the yard? You’re on _a date_?”

Ah, figures. They should have considered that.

“Why are you on a date, of all nights?!” Sherlock questions emphatically.

John rolls his eyes. _Look who’s talking._

Sherlock listens into the earpiece, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. He visibly strains to put together the pieces of what he’s hearing on the other end. The conclusion he comes to is abhorrent.

“Oh, for god’s sake! Stop, shut up, I’ve heard enough! I’m calling Dimmock instead,” Sherlock pulls the phone away and hastily presses down on the ‘end call’ button. He groans and pinches the space between his clenched-shut eyes.

“What was that about?” John asks.

“Lestrade is on a date with my brother,” Sherlock replies, his voice coated in distaste.

“You’re kidding,” John gapes, “Greg with _Mycroft_?” The idea of those two dating never once crossed John’s mind, but then again, who was he to judge?

Abruptly, Sherlock stands up from his seat and marches toward the entrance of the restaurant, his phone at his ear again. John sighs and stands to follow, stopping once on the way to grab their coats.

Outside of the ornate building, John catches up to Sherlock who is standing at the curb of the street trying to hail a cab.

“Dimmock says he got a couple of cases he’d like us to take a look at,” Sherlock says as John reaches his side.

“That’s good,” John replies, handing Sherlock his coat.

Sherlock puts on his coat in one lithe motion that only Sherlock himself is capable of. John notices he’s still frowning though.

“You alright?” John asks.

Sherlock keeps his gaze out towards the street and answers after a few seconds. “This morning I purchased online an elaborate gift assortment of lucrative cakes to be sent to Mycroft from an anonymous sender. I included a message along with it that pretty much implied that the cakes themselves were to be his Valentine for the occasion, a petty nudge at his weight.” Sherlock shifts on his feet and buries his hands in his coat pockets. “The joke’s not as funny now with the knowledge that he actually _does_ have a Valentine.”

Laughter bursts from John’s lips before he can even think to stop himself.

Sherlock harrumphs with what can only be called a pout on his face. He stretches his arm out to hail another cab, this time succeeding.

John calms down from his outburst and gently slides his arm into the crook of Sherlock’s, grabbing his attention. “Hey,” he smiles and leans up to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “Don’t think any more about your brother. We’re on a date now, remember?”

Sherlock turns his head to meet John’s eyes, a look of wonder in his own. He smiles warmly—a smile that only John can pull from him—and nods.

 

 

~~~

 

5

Sherlock wasn’t kidding about Valentine’s being a day to murder. There was undeniably a spike in the amount of reported assaults that day and DI Dimmock was only too relieved to let Sherlock and John help his team out.

The case that the two elected to investigate that evening involved the murder of a woman who was found shot dead in her flat just that afternoon. The leading suspect was her boyfriend at the time, a young man barely in his 20s.

After reviewing the photographic evidence of the scene, Sherlock was able to confirm that the murderer was the woman’s partner and the most likely reason behind his crime was because he found out about his girlfriend’s affair, which Sherlock didn’t hesitate to explain how he knew so.

Sherlock was also able to deduce the whereabouts of the murderer’s hideout from the detained belongings found at the crime scene. Which led to the detective and his blogger going out on their own, still clad in their fancy suits, to find the killer and subdue him.

They did find him alright. However he fled at the first sighting, causing Sherlock and John to chase him down. They trailed down alleyways until the culprit ran through a busy traffic intersection. They steered through lanes of bustling traffic until the culprit fled into a communal park.

Now, the murderer stumbles ahead down a pathway, shoving past couples—couples holding hands intending to enjoy a romantic walk through the park—as Sherlock and John keep right on his tail.

This was dangerous. Charging after a possibly armed murderer alone, just the two of them. This was utterly and completely dangerous.

But _god_ , was it a rush they needed.

The chase keeps on until suddenly the culprit trips over his own feet and flounders to try and keep his footing. This should have been the part where the pair catches him, now that’s he’s slowed down. Instead, the man swivels on his feet to face them and shakily yanks a gun from his coat to aim at the duo.

The man fires once, aimlessly. The noise of the gun alerts passersbys, initiating screams of terror.

Sherlock and John quickly dash for cover behind the wall of a maintenance shed. They lean heavily against the wooden paneling, gasping for breath from their prolonged excursion.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock pants, “expecting the gun.”

“Me neither,” John replies breathily. He looks over to Sherlock at his side. He doesn’t see fear in his eyes; he sees exhilaration.

John reaches behind himself and pulls out his gun from the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock catches his movement, eyes widening.

“You brought _your gun_ along to dinner?” Sherlock asks incredulously.

John quirks his lip in a half-smile. “Yeah, ‘course I did.”

Sherlock takes a gasping breath, “John Watson, you astounding man. It’s no wonder that I’m in love with you.”

And then he takes off running.

“Sher—“ John exclaims breathlessly as he watches the detective sprint straight towards the danger at hand.

John grips his weapon close to chest and pivots the corner of the wall to pursue his partner.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve done a lot of stupid things, Sherlock Holmes, but that back there was the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever seen you do.” John says sternly as he brushes Sherlock’s temple with an antiseptic wipe.

Sherlock sits on the lid of the toilet in the bathroom of their flat. His face is spotted with still-forming purple-ish bruises and a bloodied scrap resides on his temple. “Well, I stopped the guy from running away again, didn’t I?” His tone is joking, but he knows it isn’t working on John.

John kneels in front of Sherlock as he sticks a plaster over Sherlock’s cut. “I know you did. But the guy could have easily just shot you in the head,” John replies tersely. “Instead he went with the more leisurely route of ramming you onto the pavement and kicking the shit out of you.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgment. “I knew you’d show up and stop him though.”

John laughs humorlessly. “Right. Of course you did.”

“Really. If it weren’t for you tackling the guy from behind and wrestling the gun out of his hand, well I’d probably have been a goner,” Sherlock admits genuinely.

John looks into Sherlock’s eyes. The battered man stares back, his gaze honest and vulnerable.

John sighs and shakes his head. “Right. Well, don’t pull that shit again next time, okay?”

Sherlock nods.

John places his palms on his knees to lever himself up, when he winces sharply at the pain in his wrists. He didn’t get off too easily from the brawl either. Grabbing the gun from the culprit involved a lot of hand work that ended up twisting his wrists in some weird positions every now and then. There was also a bit of wrestling on the pavement which landed a few knees to his gut and pelvis. Those aches weren’t going away for a while.

Sherlock’s lucky he didn’t get seriously injured though, really. He got a pretty brutal beating while he was cornered on the ground, so he got some kicks to his torso and his legs and one unfortunate, but still not that bad, bashing to the head.

Things could’ve been worse. But they were still gonna be hurting like hell for this evening, at least.

“I’m exhausted,” John exhales wearily. “I think that’s enough excitement for one day.” He looks knowingly at Sherlock, implying about the rest of their evening.

Sherlock groans loudly as he stands up and pushes his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders. “This is awful. I had _plans_ for tonight. _Extensive_ plans,” Sherlock all but whines. He reaches down to unfasten his trousers.

“I know you did. I was kind of looking forward to them, too,” John says. “Think maybe we should just focus on getting some sleep tonight, yeah?”

John shrugs off his suit jacket and attempts the buttons on his shirt, but his wrists protest painfully. Sherlock wordlessly steps over, entering John’s personal space, and nudges his hands away to work on undoing John’s shirt for him.

“Let me handle this.”

 

 

~~~

 

+1

John lays sprawled on his back on the right side of the mattress in their bedroom. Bare, except for a pair of boxer briefs, he covers himself with the duvet and snuggles his head into the comfort of the pillows.

“Ugh, I’m knackered.” John groans aloud.

Sherlock enters the bedroom from the opaque door leading to the bathroom, also clad in only his pants. He flops onto the bed, landing on side. Instantly he regrets the action as a wave of soreness spreads through his injured limbs. He lets out a pained groan, lifting himself up to slide under the duvet.

John turns over onto his side, inching closer to the warmth of Sherlock’s frame. He carefully wraps an arm around the man’s waist and presses his nose into the crevice of skin under Sherlock’s chin.

“You regret running off on your own now?” John chides teasingly. He presses a kiss along the detective’s neck.

“No,” Sherlock replies, his voice a low rumble in John’s ear. “I don’t regret anything today. Today was… nice. If unconventional.”

“Which parts were unconventional?” John murmurs, lips dragging along his partner’s skin. “The parts were we blew up the kitchen and chased a murderer across London or the parts where we tried to be normal and romantic?”

“The normal parts, obviously.”

John chuckles. “Mm, you’re right. ‘Normal’ with us is pretty unconventional.”

Sherlock leans back slightly to look at John’s face. “I didn’t mind though,” he says, “Normal is boring, but with you it’s not… intolerable.”

 John lifts a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m glad. Thanks.” He leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock’s.

After a few seconds, John pulls back, a smile stretching his face. “I see you’ve been using that lip balm I got you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and surges forward to capture John’s mouth again.

Their lips move together languidly, no rush or hurry in their kisses.

Sherlock wiggles forward to press more of his body to John. He rubs the palm of his hand along the curve of John’s hip, fingers only teasing underneath the waistband of his pants.

John slides his fingers across the bony ridges of Sherlock’s jaw, gripping lightly at the curls on his nape. He sucks gently on Sherlock’s bottom lip before slipping back to catch his breath.

Sherlock hums and nuzzles his nose against John’s cheek. His hand has now gravitated completely underneath the fabric of John’s briefs, massaging supple flesh with clenching fingers.

“I thought we agreed we weren’t doing any more excitement this evening,” John whispers, amused.

“Remember what I said, John, “Sherlock replies lowly, “While I concur that my original plans for tonight are postponed, that doesn’t mean we still can’t do anything else.”

“So, what? You’re saying we should have ‘normal’ sex tonight?”

Sherlock huffs a laugh, a warm breath of air that tickles John’s cheek. John feels the hand under his briefs remove itself and drift round to the front of his shorts. Long digits curve to cup him in his pants, squeezing gently, sending a pleasant shudder through John.

“Nothing’s truly normal with you, John.”

Their lips meet again, kissing more passionately than they were before. John moans against Sherlock’s lips as his hand continues to rub the hardening bulge in his pants.

Sherlock breaks the kiss after a while to reach his arm behind him and pull out a tube of lube from the bedside table. He throws down the duvet from their bodies, letting it rumple at their feet. Sherlock kneels over John to peel his pants from his hips, down his legs, to toss haphazardly to the floor.

Returning to lay on his side again, Sherlock opens the lube and squeezes a dollop onto his fingers. He nestles his face into John’s neck, kissing the skin lightly, as he reaches down to grasp John’s cock, smoothing the lube from base to tip.

John shuts his eyes blissfully and lets another moan escape his throat as warm, tingling sensation sings through him.

Wait— _tingling_?

“Is that the new stuff you bought?" John murmurs.

"Yes."

"Mm, ‘s nice.”

Sherlock strokes his fist up the length of John’s cock, keeping a steady pace. “I hope you enjoy my gift to you,” he whispers lowly in John’s ear.

“I’m, ah, enjoying it so far, definitely. Oh god, yeah,” John keens as Sherlock thumbs over the head of his length.

Sherlock strokes and swirls and squeezes, picking up his pace and slowing down before speeding up again. He plants open-mouthed kisses up John’s throat and jaw. John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, holding on as tightly as he can, his face burrowed into Sherlock’s neck, groaning.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you for earlier,” Sherlock whispers. “You saved me. You were so brilliant, John.” He speeds up his wrist and pumps John fervently.

John gasps and shudders. “Ah fuck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock splays his free hand across John’s stomach, the muscles tensing underneath his touch, to steady him as John climaxes in his grip.

Breathing deep gulps of air, John relaxes and his entire body softens against Sherlock’s frame, waves of pleasure still hazy behind his eyes.

Sherlock sits up and wipes his hand briefly on the edges on his own pants before stripping them off. He shuffles on the bed and lies on his back. Tilting his hips up, he takes his cock in hand and begins to stroke himself.

John blinks out of his post-coital stupor to eye Sherlock’s movements next to him. He sits up and reaches over to place his hand over Sherlock’s pumping fist. “Hey, wait.”

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to look at John, his cheeks tinted pink with arousal. “What? I’m finishing myself off,” he gestures his free hand towards John. “Your wrists are hurt, so I’m saving you the trouble of reciprocation.”

John shakes his head, amused. (He’s been doing this a lot lately with this guy, hasn’t he?) He lifts up on to his knees and crawls down to the end of the mattress. John pushes apart the detective’s legs to lean over Sherlock’s hips.

“Stop using that big head of yours and let me use _mine_ for a change, okay?”

“Wha—?” Sherlock attempts to question but cuts off with a gasp as John leans down to breathe a damp puff of air over the man’s erection and press a chaste kiss to the leaking tip.

John smiles to himself. Sherlock really must be more exhausted than he claimed to be if he momentarily forgot about the concept of a blowjob.

Sherlock takes a sharp intake of breath and opens his legs wide, planting his feet on the bed in preparation.

John parts his lips and takes the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. Humming at the weight on his tongue, he suckles at the skin and glands.

Clamping his eyes shut, Sherlock tilts his head back into the pillow, lips parted in pleasure.

John lets himself take a few more inches into his mouth before he starts to bob his head, tracing his tongue along Sherlock’s length as he goes. John settles his weight onto an elbow and lets his free arm smooth slowly up the expanse of Sherlock’s torso. He trails his hand over his hips and along his stomach, reaching towards Sherlock’s chest, drawing slow comforting circles with his fingers along the way.

Sherlock pants heavily and covers his face with an arm thrown over. “Ohh. Oh, John,” he moans.

John picks up his pace and moves his head up and down the length of Sherlock’s cock, swirling and massaging with his tongue as Sherlock nears his orgasm.

Sherlock comes with a shout, his hips jutting forward. John swallows him down and soothingly strokes his hand across Sherlock’s side as he finishes.

Damp with sweat and feeling drowsy, John collapses on his side, facing Sherlock, who’s still panting and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

“You good?” John asks, shifting over to lean against Sherlock and press a kiss to his shoulder.

Sherlock swallows and nearly gasps trying to formulate words, “Yeah. Yeah. Real good. Um, thanks.”

John leans down the bed to pull the duvet up to their shoulders. He snuggles back into Sherlock’s arm. The detective rolls over to his side and wraps his arm around John, pulling him close. He presses his nose into the man’s soft sandy hair and inhales deeply.

“I didn’t get a chance to reply to you before," John whispers into Sherlock’s neck. "I love you, too.” 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks.

“Before when you were about to run off to your imminent death chasing that madman, you called me astounding and said you loved me,” John grins, “I just wanted to say it back, too.”

“Oh.”

“Mmm,” John hums contentedly, “Now, go to sleep, love.”

And so they did. Thus, Sherlock and John’s February 14th finally came to an end.


End file.
